


black noise

by blooshboy



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Manipulative Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 07:06:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8655313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blooshboy/pseuds/blooshboy
Summary: he's yours.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】Black Noise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8746507) by [amberjune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberjune/pseuds/amberjune)



###

 

 

In the endless monotony of life and death, one boy has always struck you as stubbornly different. Under pitch black clothes and meticulous grooming, Credence stands sharp and pale and he's yours. You could follow him from vein to vein and find yourself inside each one like poison, like wicked thoughts he must try to erase - or embrace. It's confusing, of course. Because, sometimes your heart - which is so terribly new to ache - contracts painfully at the sight of him and his fragile bones. And, sometimes, you think you could spend the rest of your life without ever seeing him and never think about it twice. 

These days, you're afraid because you've been feeling the former a lot more than the latter and if there's one thing you cannot afford, it's being in love with Credence Barebone. Almost helplessly, you find yourself finding him - always with a poor excuse on your tongue that he eats up and swallows and keeps inside himself like a precious gemstone, as if every word out of Percival Graves' mouth is absolutely priceless. 

You start envying a meat suit. You start looking at Graves' reflection and thinking perhaps Credence wouldn't find you as charming if you were in your real body. Perhaps your sticky words wouldn't have worked as well if you were simply Gellert Grindelwald and every time he says _Mr. Graves_ like it's an oath, you want to wreck him. You want to break him and fill him with only _your_ name and _your_ face. And, you're sure he'd break right in two just for you - cleanly rip open his ribcage and let you take a bite, because-

He's _yours_.

Like anything of yours, he's rough around the edges and the wizarding world won't accept him. You've given him plenty of false promises and you wonder sometimes why a bright boy like him hopes against hope that everything you say is true and real and that you'll fix everything. He comes to you wearing marks and scars left on his beautiful body by that horrid woman and he doesn't quite look at you but you understand anyway. You take away the pain as much as you can and he gives you his life for it. 

It's a poor deal but he's yours and you can't risk losing him. 

 _Is there a spell that can make water cold or hot_ , he asks and you tell him, _yes, dear boy, watch this_.

 _Is there a spell that can fold laundry by itself_ , he asks and you laugh, _yes, watch this_.

 _Is there a spell that can make someone fall in love with you_ , he asks and you hesitate. _Yes, but, it's dangerous, dear boy, and it doesn't last._

 _Is there a spell that will make the man you love want to kiss you_ , he asks - eyes closed tight and hands shaking - and you get angry, _who? Who do you want to kiss you, Credence?_   Who could he possibly love that you do not know about? How can he do this to you after everything-

_You, Mr. Graves._

It's terrible, it's wicked, it's awful, awful bad, but you kiss him right then on his quivering lips and claim yet another part of him you had no right to. He drinks you in like salvation and the terrible man you are, you make him think that's exactly what you're offering. He whimpers and clutches your shoulders with frail fingers you've wiped welts off of countless times (so, they're yours, too, along with the rest of him). You wraps your arms around his waist and hold him tight as if he'll turn into smoke and slip away from you. Because, the wicked man you are, you'll sooner crush him under your own fingers than let anyone else have him. That's how you've always been. 

His whispers wet and warm against your lips, _this is a sin_ , and you gently tell him, _then, I'll gladly take the sin entirely upon myself if I can continue to kiss you for longer, my boy_. He flushes, the pink from the autumn breeze turning a deep red, and you dig your fingers into him. 

_Ma is waiting for me, Mr. Graves._

You let him go but only with the promise of meeting again soon. _Find the child_ , is a second thought and it slips out like habit even though you can barely think past the feeling of his lips. 

 

You realize you've cracked him open and made him susceptible to countless more sins when he looks at your chin and asks what making love is. You could drown in the treacherous thoughts that fill you at the sight of him, but you don't corrupt him just yet. You have a greater mission at hand and it'd be severely unlike you to be distracted from that by a mere boy who you're so sure is a squib.

If only he wasn't so awful pretty.

 

Credence smells of lavender today and it's got you immediately angry for no discernible reason. He picks up on your mood quickly, cowering more than usual and his eyes stuck on your coat pockets as if they're the most interesting thing in the alley. He tries to talk about the child, says he's trying his best to find whoever it might be, talks about his Ma and almost manages not to flinch at her mention. He's wound up tight just because of the mood you're giving off and that heady sense of control is only fueling your upset.

"Did you go to a perfume shop, Credence?" you ask sharply, cutting off his stuttered story about Modesty's disturbing little songs. He glances at your briefly before dropping his gaze back on your pocket and he has his fists clenched nervously tight at his sides, shoulders hunched - making him look as weak as a bird's wing.

"No, Mr. Graves. Why," he swallows, "Why do you ask?"

"You smell different, that's all," you say, trying to seem disinterested, leaning back against the brick wall as he's hunched sort of diagonally to the one across from you. Like a caged animal.

"I went to the bakery today and the shopkeeper was heavily perfumed. It may have caught on my clothes," he says softly and you can't pick off any sense of guilt on him so you except the answer. As soon as you relax completely, he straightens slightly and you can kiss him again. And, you love kissing him. As with anything he does for you, he kisses with a life-giving sort of passion, like an I'll-die-for-you type of passion. An anything-you-want sort of passion. It makes you want to teach him what making love means.

 

In a twist of fate, you break under him. Holding him isn't enough. Seeing him in dark alleys isn't enough. You think about him at Congress hearings. You think about him when Madame President is going on about _something_ absolutely vital. You think about him in the emptiness of your room. You think about him when you're hunched over research that doesn't seem to make sense because you can't read a word without remembering how he tastes. Always so clean and bright and beautiful. Nothing at all like something you deserve. 

So, you take him to the edge of New York in a fancy hotel and sit him down in a bed. He tries to kiss you - and sometimes you think maybe it's his way of compensating for not finding the child - but you don't let him. A few minutes later, there's a knock on the door and you leave him on the bed to go get the tray of food. You tip the server at the door so he won't come in and bring the tray inside. It's more than a month's worth of food for Credence and you see your boy's eyes light up.

He eats slowly and primly as if afraid of embarrassing himself. You even let him have a few sips of your wine even though they go straight to his head and he gets a little woozy, a little loose. And, a loose Credence is a charming man. He doesn't seem like a boy when he's sitting straighter and actually managing to look him in the eyes. He seems every inch of the twenty-something year old he is and you want to drain him to the very last drop. 

 

There's something that having Credence on his hands and knees begging and whining does to you that you hadn't been prepared for. Your hands are rough when they close around his waist and your fingers dig into the flesh with an intent to mark and possess. Because, he's yours and _Mr. Graves, please, please_ sounds so pretty coming out of his bitten red mouth that's opening and closing helplessly against the white sheets. His hair is messed up from your fingers trying to get a hold on the short strands and he makes the perfect picture like that - flushed and folded up with red lips and dark hair. 

Anyone could hardly blame you for ravaging him. 

You put your hands on his ass, gently feeling the curve of it before grabbing a handful and spreading him open for you to eat up. The second your tongue touches his rim, he whines loudly and reaches blindly behind him to graze his fingers against your jaw - _Mr. Graves, oh, I feel_. 

He's a wreck when your tongue is inside him and when you replace your tongue with your fingers, he nearly climaxes. There are tears in his eyes, so beautiful glistening as he begs you for something he can't even put into words. And, you love him so, it's hard to not give him exactly that. As you sink into him, you think your vision goes pitch black for a second. You think the whole hotel shakes for a second. Something happens and then it's normal again except your heart is at your throat just from the feeling of being inside your boy, as deep as anyone can go and as deep as anyone will ever go. And, that's yours, too. This part of him you're touching will only ever be yours. 

He's begging again but you have other things on mind. You make it slow and languid, torturing you and him alike with your pace. He has his hands fisting in the sheets, ass arched perfectly - looking so much like a pet, a whore that you're irrationally and violently jealous. Because it's the sort of thing that practice makes perfect and the thought of any man touching him makes you blind with rage. You thrust hard and fast suddenly and he nearly screams, climaxing onto the sheets without even being touched. He's so delirious with pleasure, he whispers, _are you using a spell, Mr. Graves, because I can't - I'm, I feel-_

And, you fuck him harder and faster until he's surely going to feel you for a week with every step he takes.

 _Perfect_ , you whisper into his spine, teeth around the knob of it before you dip further to kiss the edge of his jaw. His head is turned and resting on the sheets and he's panting. It winds you up just looking at him. 

 

He asks you a million questions as you smuggle him out of New York, the Magical Congress hot on your trail after your escape. You answer each one. You tell him you didn't mean to hit him, didn't mean to push him, but you had to in order to bring out the magic in him. He believes you, of course. You tell him you're taking him to a place where you can safely teach him how to control that magic without hurting himself or anyone else. He trusts you. Of course. With that sinfully pretty mouth and those dark eyes, he lets you devour him. 

At every seedy hotel stop, at all the boats you take, there's always people looking at him. He's a magnet in that way. He's always been. All drawn into himself and vulnerable, fragility wafting off of him in delicate strokes. He makes people want to help him. Perhaps it's the weight of the situation, the notion of being on the run, but you want to break the neck of anyone who tries to talk to him. You fuck him every night, trying to keep your marks fresh and bright like sirens, like blaring signs warning people away. 

Because, well - he's _yours_.

 

 

 

+//+


End file.
